The young man waiting the window tables at Le Boulevard Vert is dark and slim-wristed, with a trace of some obscure accent that he chases around the French names of the dishes.
He is exceedingly polite, and quietly but firmly opinionated about the wine list, and before placing the water glasses has already identified which members of the party are left-handed.
Jean is currently being wined and dined by an extremely dull director. He is categorically uninterested in acting in movies based on comic books, but sometimes one must put up with being courted.
And sometimes there are side benefits.
"What would you recommend?" he asks the waiter, eyeing the young man's fingers with slightly more interest than is entirely appropriate. Those hands could model.
"The blanquette de veau, tonight, sir."
He stops, considers — the accent, the look.
"Or the boudin noir."
He hears the accent and pauses with his hand halfway to his glass.
"D'où venez-vous?"
“Par-ci, par-là.”
He’s half-smiling — it’s unclear whether it’s out of politeness.
Oh, a mystery. His night is much improved already.
"The boudin noir, please, then. And what wine would you recommend with that?"
There are a few Bordeaux on the list — but this is someone who can afford the best option.
"The Saint Macaire."
He laughs.
"I promise I will tip you as if I had ordered that. Now, is it really the best, or only the most expensive?"
He's clearly trying his best to conceal the offense he's taken. He's mostly successful.
"It is the best. The best by an inch, but the best."
The look of slightly inappropriate fascination travels up from the young man's hands to his face, passing over the alarmingly narrow lines of his wrists and neck on the way.
"Well, then, a bottle of the Saint Macaire."
The film executive, slightly alarmed, orders steak.
He makes the executive a few recommendations, then glides off with their order to the kitchen.
When he returns to pour the wine, he’s excruciatingly careful about it. It’s almost silent.
Jean, familiar with this ritual, inspects the cork -- takes the scent of the wine -- tastes the first pour, then invites their server to taste it.
He appears appeased by the gesture, and takes the glass with a nod.
The scent — the weight in his hand —
And the taste. He closes his eyes there at the table, for just a moment, letting the wine spread over his tongue.
He manages to return the glass without any obvious hesitation.
Well, isn't that a work of art.
"Tell me what I should be tasting for." He wants to hear this boy talk about wine. He wants to watch this boy be jealous.
"Currant. Dark chocolate. It's a very dry wine — you'll taste graphite on the finish, if you're looking for it, and tarragon."
He can't help looking at the bottle, more than the man.
Jean is not, in fact, looking for any of these things.
He makes a show of taking another slow sip, though -- the deep nasal inhalation, the lingering before the swallow, the flutter of the eyelashes, the tiniest shiver.
"Beautiful. Thank you."
He nods.
“It’s my pleasure.”
He would kill him for the rest of that bottle.
Jean gives him a polite half a smile, before turning back to the executive and asking dismissively who they've hired for wardrobe.
After pouring wine and water for them both, and providing them with bread and butter, he departs.
When the kitchen has willed it, he’s back with their plates.
Jean pauses in his diatribe at the concept art (what is that helmet, really) to sparkle charmingly at the waiter and thank him.
He nods, smiles, departs again.
He’s very attentive, through the dinner. Both parties would be hard-pressed to empty a glass for long.
The executive, who is having a difficult day, makes a fair attempt at it.
Jean doesn't drink more than half his own glass before it's time for him to nod at the dessert menu.
He can recommend the tarte tatin, and very deliberately not look at the half-full glass.
Jean considers the recommendation, asks a few thoughtful questions about fruit, and finally orders a row of tiny macarons.
(The executive, obviously doing math in his head, orders nothing.)
The macarons, tender little pastel pearls on a dark wooden board, are out shortly.
The macarons disappear, one by one, as Jean ruthlessly and systematically criticizes the themes, imagery, characterization, and plot beats of the script he's been given.
The executive looks like he might want to cry.
At the end, when Jean nudges his plate away, there's one perfect macaron left, poised at the edge of his plate not quite touching a smear of berry reduction.
(Jean is watching, under his eyelashes.)
Their waiter takes the plate (carefully, carefully) and departs towards the hall to the kitchen once more.
How disappointing.
Jean excuses himself, smiling, and bumbles cluelessly after him, a tipsily entitled star looking for the bathroom and ignoring employees only signs.
He’s just around the corner. He didn’t even make it all the way into the kitchen.
(The delicate merengue breaks under his teeth, yields to soft cream, wet on his lips and tongue — sweet, perfectly balanced, so light it’s almost weightless...)
His eyes are closed. He doesn’t notice him.
Oh, gorgeous.
He stands and watches shamelessly.
He doesn’t open his eyes again until he’s kissed the last spot of cream off his fingertip.
Then he opens his eyes — to set the plate aside, go wash his hands —
“...can I help you,” he manages.
"Yes," he says, thoughtfully.
“...how can I help you, sir.”
"Good question," he says, as if he really means it.
"...your number, I think."
“...I’ll bring you your bill, sir.”
He laughs, and says "I'll look forward to it" as if they've just agreed on an assignation.
Then he ambles cheerfully back to his table.
The check arrives shortly.
With it is a small matchbook, printed with the name of the restaurant.
Jean pockets it casually, and doesn't look at it until he's home.
There’s a ten-digit number written out neatly on the underside of the flap.
Three days later, he gets a text from an unknown number with a picture of a cat.
Half an hour after that, there's one more text, from the same number.
What shifts do you work? -- JD
...he has to admit, it’s a very cute cat. (Celebrities.)
He sends back a shot of his schedule for the next week.
En Quatre, Tuesday, 11 AM
...oh.
Already worth it.
On Tuesday, at 11 AM, that’s where he’ll be.
His celebrity host is forty-five minutes late, dashing and cheerful, dressed to the nines but carrying his jacket over his shoulder to show off his trimly tailored waistcoat and vivid cerulean shirt. The wind-tousel of his hair is suspiciously photogenic, and a careful eye can spot the rouge that gives his cheeks that flush of adventure.
"Ah! You're here already, excellent."
He’s as sharply dressed as he can be, given his budget — no two pieces from a set, but all fit perfectly to him, probably the result of careful thrifting and the services of a tailor.
“I always forget whether Los Angeles time springs forward, or falls back.”
"No, you don't. Your manager says you've never once been late to your shift."
The host recognizes Jean and ushers them to an out-of-the-way table, where pleasant low light filters in through a vine-covered window.
“...have you been running a background check? Will I need a personal reference?”
He takes his seat.
"You don't have any. You live alone; you spend most of your waking hours at work. All of your colleagues agree you're excellent at what you do, but none of them would call you a friend. You don't have a regular boyfriend. If you have family, my background check was too polite to find them."
He delivers his little speech casually, scanning the drinks menu as he speaks.
“...should I be afraid, Mr. Dulac?”
If he is, he doesn’t look it.
"...what? No. Why?"
He looks honestly confused.
“This is normally called ‘stalking’.”
"It was a simple background check! Your landlord does more every time you apply for an apartment!"
He turns the menu around and offers it to Valentine.
"What should we order?"
That’s...
That’s not even a little true.
But that’s not what’s important right now.
He takes the menu and studies it carefully.
“...the quail. Or — oh, the chanterelle crepes...”
"Excellent."
He flags down the waitress, quizzes her about wine pairings, and orders the crepes for himself and the quail for Valentine.
He has no idea how he’s going to hold a reasonable conversation in the time before their food arrives.
He’s already gone through a glass of water. He’s pouring for himself again before their waitress leaves.
“Will I see you in a helmet in the near future?”
"God, no. But one has to give them hope, once in a while."
Jean is nearly as impatient for the food as his guest is.
"You have a good tailor, but not one I recognize. What's his name?"
“...if you had known him, you could have recognized him?”
"Obviously. What else is it, to know a tailor?"
“...I’m not sure, but it must exist.”
"It seems pointless."
The waitress arrives with their wine. Jean touches the cork, and passes it to Valentine to inspect as he tastes the tablespoonful she pours for him.
He turns it over in his hand, and watches the wine itself.
Jean knows just enough to determine that the wine isn't corked, and hasn't turned to vinegar. He thanks the waitress, and offers her a taste.
Only then does she pour for each of them, Valentine first.
The brief wait for the pour to finish is agonizing. It’s all he can do not to snatch it out from under the bottle and stain the tablecloth — but the lost wine would be a tragedy.
He takes his cup, once she’s moved on, and puts it to his lips.
Jean doesn't even bother to touch his own glass, contentedly occupied in watching Valentine drink.
He doesn’t speak another word until the first glass is drained, just sits eyes closed and breathing deeply, sipping at the wine.
Then he realizes what he’s been doing, as he hits the bottom of the glass. He sets it aside and averts his eyes.
Jean plays with the wine in his own glass -- swirling it, watching it, smelling it, not drinking it -- watching Valentine, enjoying himself.
(It's not a crime, to buy a beautiful young man a glass of wine. He doesn't even intend to sleep with him.)
He glances at Jean’s cup, when he manages to look back anywhere at the table.
“...you don’t like to drink much, do you.”
"A lot of people want to buy me drinks. Fewer of them are interested in pleasing my palate than in compromising my judgement."
He has very clever fingers; he can swirl the wine close to the rim of the glass, even a little over it, without ever spilling a drop.
That is both impressive and a little painful to watch.
“I’m not sure you should be the one worried about that.”
"No, I suppose not."
He sets down the glass and slides it almost halfway across the table -- a clear offer, but one which Valentine will have to reach out to accept.
It’s unquestionably worth it.
He reaches out and takes it, puts it to his lips,
drinks.
Jean watches him, bright-eyed, until the wine is gone.
When Valentine has swallowed the last of it -- and he watches him swallow, too, tracking the motion of his throat -- he strikes up a light and bubbly conversation, carrying on a cheerful line of patter about classic slapstick comedy and art restoration and the season's weather in Bordeaux, all of it mildly entertaining and none of it requiring any particular input from his companion.
He still does his best. He’s very quick-witted, if slightly slowed already by two glasses of wine on an empty stomach.
This is a pleasant surprise. He'd counted on a show, not conversation.
Eventually their food arrives. Jean is only briefly tempted to make a pretense of saying grace, to make Valentine wait those extra long seconds.
It’s unclear whether Valentine would hear him, if he did.
He cuts into the meat with hands almost trembling with desire.
It's incredible -- the boy is so clearly so hungry, and at the same time this so clearly goes beyond mere hunger.
To draw it out, he makes conversation, requiring answers from Valentine between every bite -- how long has he worked at Le Boulevard? is he familiar with any of Jean's oeuvre? was he born here, or abroad?
He manages, barely, to pause politely for conversation every time.
He’s been at the restaurant for the last year, and grateful for it — he’s familiar with a film or two of Jean’s, but less than he’d like — he was technically born here, but traveled with his parents until he was old enough to return on his own.
And, between answers —
he has his reward.
Jean is acutely aware that he could take this boy into the bathroom and fuck him, and his companion would probably consider it a fair price for dinner.
Instead, he mechanically moves his own food into his mouth, chews, swallows.
"You don't eat often."
“...not this well, no.”
Jean reaches over the table and catches his hand, turns it over to expose the bones jutting from his narrow wrist.
"Not well, nor yet poorly."
“...I have a medical condition.”
He has no way of verifying the claim; his sister won't do medical records for him unless he can produce a reason better than desperate curiosity.
"So you wouldn't be interested in lunch again next week."
“—I would. Be very much interested.”
It comes out a little too fast.
"I'll see if I can find time in my schedule."
Jean is down to the last bite of his crepes. He spears it with his fork, swirls it through the vivid yellow traces of a runny yolk, offers it across the table to Valentine.
He hesitates only a moment before leaning forward and taking it in his mouth.
It's not that Jean is attracted to this man. It's just impossible to look at that image and not perform some mental substitutions regarding the contents of his mouth.
Jean lays down his fork and signals for the bill.
He tries to make the single mouthful last.
No dessert. Not this time. This has been enough self-indulgence.
(He has to leave something for him to earn.)
Jean pays the bill, tips generously, smiles across the table at Valentine.
"May I offer you a ride home?"
“...that would be kind of you.”
"My pleasure."
His car is incongruous -- a lime-green, beetley hybrid. Jean has to shift books and papers to make room for Valentine to sit.
“—these aren’t all yours?”
He glances at a worn computer science text tucked into the back pocket of a seat.
Jean laughs, starting the engine and pulling out. "No. I keep my things neat. But no matter how many times I take them out, she brings them back in."
“Who’s ‘she’?”
"Zahara."
He says the name with immense fondness.
(He's also navigating unerringly towards Valentine's apartment, without having to ask for an address.)
Ah. That would be why they’ll be in Valentine’s apartment.
...wait a minute. He knows that park.
"But enough about me. Are you hoping to stay in the restaurant industry?"
“I expect I will. For a while, at least.”
"But you must have a dream. Somewhere you're hoping to go."
“That’s planning very far ahead.”
"You're a very reserved man, you know."
He turns onto a narrow street, starts watching for the building number.
“I find if I’m secretive enough, it disguises the fact that my life is actually very uninteresting.”
"An admirable philosophy."
He sounds very sincere.
...here's the one. "On the left, here?"
Briefly, he considers telling him he actually lives a block down.
“...yes. Thank you.”
"Lovely."
He takes the turn very narrowly in front of an oncoming car, and pulls to the curb in front of the building.
"It's been a pleasure, Monsieur Teegarden."
“...likewise,” he says, sounding not at all certain of this assessment.
He’s out of the car and through the door of his apartment building in short order.
The car pulls away, and he's left to himself.
(Later, at home, Jean flips through menus of various upscale restaurants. It's not as if the boy would -- could, really -- refuse a second invitation...)
At home, for the next several days, Valentine attempts to make crépes.
The first few batches are completely inedible. He has to spit every time when he's tasting. After going through several cartons of eggs and a great deal of flour, he manages one — lacy at the edges, moist but not too thick or undercooked, firm but not rubbery, sprinkled with melted butter and strawberry and cinnamon sugar — that he can eat in its entirety.
An hour of rumination later, he loses it, but it's a promising development.
He shouldn't. He knows he shouldn't.
He especially knows he shouldn't after the first time he jerks off, quick and discreet into the toilet where it can be easily flushed away, thinking about Valentine's face.
Sex work is work, but using a survival sex worker -- instead of just helping him -- and he can't lie to himself, not entirely, about what this is --
The Black Oven, Sunday, 4PM
He’s there, again, precisely on time.
Jean is forty-six minutes late on the dot, and very precisely dressed.
"Valentine! Lovely as always. You really must give me your tailor's name."
He pushes himself up off a section of low brick wall where he was trying to lean as discreetly as possible.
“I’m sure the card is buried somewhere. I’ll dig it up for you.”
"You're a fairly competent liar," Jean observes, and -- not, apparently, expecting a response -- sweeps Valentine off towards a cozy little corner booth.
“...what makes you say that?”
"Relatively few tells. Your pupils don't even dilate, did you know that?"
“Should I be offended, or flattered?”
"Flattered, certainly."
He's making a show of looking over the menu, as if he hasn't already read it obsessively.
He looks down the menu — raclette, clay pot roast chicken, rabbit tortellini — and is very quickly distracted by the fresh-baked bread now being cut for them at the table.
He barely avoids putting his hands in the way of the knife.
"You look hungry. Did you eat breakfast?"
“...no, I didn’t.”
He feels like a mouse in a very small hole.
It’s almost a relief, to have someone try to pin him down this way.
"I'm told it's the most important meal of the day."
Jean helps himself to bread before Valentine can reach for it; takes his time with the butter knife, making him wait.
“So I’ve heard.”
He folds his hands firmly in his lap, and waits and waits and waits and waits.
Eventually -- his bread adorned with perfect artistry, covered by a smooth film of perfectly even butter -- Jean has to relinquish the butter knife.
"What did you do before you worked at Le Boulevard?"
He takes the knife as soon as he wouldn’t be snatching it out of Jean’s hand.
“Was that not part of the background check?”
"My people have ... conscientious objections ... to looking into records past a name change without good reason."
“...that’s very ethical of them.”
He butters his bread surprisingly carefully, for someone as clearly ravenous as he is, and then
takes a bite.
His money's worth already.
(He wants to take away the bread and make him beg for it.) (He crushes the thought down.)
It would be a crime to say anything until the bread is gone.
By monumental strength of will, he puts the knife down before he takes the last piece, and returns his hands again to his lap.
Jean takes the last piece, butters it, and sets to eating it -- slowly, with great relish, and with more eye contact than is perfectly appropriate.
He feels like he should — try to make conversation. Object, somehow. Look down at the menu, at least.
But he just sits there, and watches him eat.
His eyes flutter shut. He makes soft noises of pleasure.
At the end, he holds out the last bite of bread to Valentine.
His hand comes up halfway — then he thinks better of it.
He leans forward, lips slightly parted, and accepts the gift.
His fingers just brush Valentine's lower lip.
(No more. Not a moment more. No matter how sorely it tempts him.)
He tries to savor this one a while, before he swallows.
Every moment is worth watching.
When the waiter comes, Jean orders for both of them.
He can accept that.
He's trying, in vain, to remember what it is they were talking about before Jean Dulac put bread in his mouth.
Jean Dulac currently appears to be fascinated with his eyelashes.
"Are you wearing mascara?"
...he goes over the morning's events in his mind.
"No, I'm not."
He's not sure if this is a compliment.
"You should. Just a little, not something cheap. Sometimes lilies are meant to be gilded."
"...are they really that impressive?"
"Quite lovely. The dark circles really rather flatter you."
He laughs, a little self-consciously, looks aside.
"I've never known what to do about those."
"Oh, you could conceal them, I imagine. But It would make your face so much more common."
"...you genuinely like them," he says, caught just off-guard enough for a lopsided smile.
"Really, what possible motivation would I have to lie to you about it?"
"I would expect sarcasm, more than lying."
"Anyone can be pretty enough -- a little makeup, a little exercise, a little training in how to smile. Beauty is an accomplishment."
"I would think you see it often."
"In my mirror daily. And yet I never tire of it."
That was charmingly vain. He knows that was meant to be charmingly vain. And yet he can't help laughing.
It's not as lovely as when he eats; and yet it's still a sight to behold.
"I hope you haven't filled up on bread too much to enjoy your food."
That gets a laugh, too, but a very different kind.
"That would be difficult."
And yet he's already regretting letting him have the bread. It's so exquisite when the sharp edge of real hunger touches him.
"A challenge, perhaps."
That's a thought, in any case. Not one Jean is going to indulge. Only a thought.
"What — to keep me from enjoying dinner?"
It's forced, but it doesn't come off desperate. He has to hold onto that where he can.
"To feed you, until even you can't enjoy it any longer."
Oh. They're just — going to say things out loud, then. Okay.
(His stomach has dropped — his palms are wet. He can feel the back of his neck flush.)
He opens his mouth, to try to respond, and comes up empty, at first, too aware of himself and of the crowd — the people sitting around them, the low murmur of conversation — knives and forks clicking on plates.
"...it would be a challenge," he agrees, as if this is a perfectly normal topic of conversation, slightly undershooting 'flirtatious' in his stumbling moment of alarm.
He's never done this before.
He's playing idly with his fork, counting the tines with the tip of one finger.
"Do you think you would find the process pleasant?"
“I…think that would defeat the purpose.”
And yet — he’s hungry. And he wants to eat. The end result, the pain and the nausea, the sacrilege, are all so distant as to be irrelevant. He could eat, and eat, until he was full.
Nothing else matters. Not really.
"Not at all."
He plucks a tine. It makes a faint ting sound under his finger, barely audible.
"In any case. Not today."
Not ever, if his self-restraint holds.
It’s a blessing, really.
“Not today,” he agrees, as if they had been coming to a decision together.
Jean smiles, and moves smoothly on to more ordinary small talk as if they'd just agreed on the pleasantness of the weather.
In time, the waiter delivers their food. Jean eats -- without much attention -- and he watches Valentine eat.
It’s slow — loving — painfully restrained. He catches his own wrist, once, to keep himself from taking a second bite too soon.
His eyes don’t leave his plate until it’s clean.
He doesn't breathe, for more than a minute, after he sees Valentine hold his own wrist back.
Jean hasn't finished his food. He could trade what's left on his plate for Valentine's body, and Valentine wouldn't refuse him; he's painfully aware of it.
Instead, he lets the waiter take his plate away with food still on it, for the pleasure of watching Valentine wince.
He is not disappointed.
Valentine's eyes track the plate until it's well away from their table.
The boy is so obviously still hungry. It's written in his hollow eyes.
It makes Jean want to take him to the bathroom and feed him his cock.
(What is wrong with him?)
Jean pays the check, tips generously, swears to himself he'll never do this again.
"The same time next week?"
"Yes. Please."
The next week, he shows up on time again. He does, however, bring a book. And wear a coat.
Jean is punctually late. The waitstaff are wearily tolerant. Their table is private.
He refrained from bringing so many things to this meal. He didn't bring a condom, or an emetic, or a very large sum in unmarked bills, or a miracle berry tablet, or a diamond ring.
Surely he can be forgiven for the lipstick he slides across the table.
He glances at it – then palms it, carefully and silently, and excuses himself to the bathroom.
He's gone a little longer than he should be, caught in the mirror both before and after.
His lips are dark, when he returns to his seat.
"Lovely," Jean says, brief and appraising, before handing Valentine the menu he's been looking at. "Would you rather the hiramasa or the dover sole?"
He looks down at the menu, to study his options.
“…I’ve never eaten hiramasa.”
Jean nods, and folds the menu.
"You buy a lot of groceries, for someone who eats so little."
“…was this another background check?”
"Is it really a background check, after the first time?"
He sounds genuinely thoughtful.
“No,” he says, a little incredulous, “not really!”
"Then no."
Sure, why not.
“It doesn’t seem like you would have the time to follow me personally.”
"Certainly not!"
He has the time. He's done the calculations on that three times this week. But he's being good.
“So…how do you…”
It feels ridiculous to even ask these questions.
"That would be telling."
Credit card statements. And the bodega on the corner next to Valentine's apartment takes cash, so he blackmailed the owner.
“…I practice often,” he says, taking the path of least resistance.
"Eating?"
“Cooking,” he says, not laughing.
(He’s not wrong, really.)
"Have you considered eating it?"
“I couldn’t eat it all if I tried.”
He's evading the question. But he does it so prettily, Jean has to let it lie.
"What have you cooked lately?"
“A few things — I’ve been on crepes for weeks. I just can’t seem to get the timing exactly right.”
"Tell me."
Jean will listen in fascination to Valentine's cooking stories, until the waiter takes their orders.
(He orders Valentine the Dover sole.)
…ah.
He watches the waiter walk away.
Just a miscommunication. He wasn’t exactly clear.
He has enough material gleaned from the chefs at Le Boulevard to last them some time. He seems to watch them almost obsessively, trying to glean whatever secrets he can from ten minutes here and ten seconds there.
Jean's interest doesn't waver. (He watches Valentine's lips, more often than his eyes.)
Eventually there is food. Jean's monkfish is probably delicious. He wouldn't know.
The sole is, luckily, incredible. It nearly falls apart in his mouth, rich and tender and perfect.
He tries not to stain the food with his lipstick — he opens wide, and takes very careful bites, coaxing the food off the fork with his tongue.
The touch of color really does make the picture perfect.
He wants to tell Valentine to lick the plate -- to bend over, there at the table, put his face to it like an animal for one more taste of the sauce. He wants to find out if Valentine would do it.
"Would you like dessert?" he asks, instead.
(There's no price for it. He won't make Valentine suck him off in the bathroom, to earn it, or touch him under the table, or even go into the bathroom once more and come back to give Jean his underwear. But he wants to enjoy the moment where Valentine thinks there might be, and decides whether to ask for it anyway.)
It’s only a moment’s hesitation.
“Yes. Please.”
Jean smiles benevolently and orders them a mille-feuille, two forks.
It’s very difficult, waiting for it to arrive.
When it does — shining chocolate on pastry on luscious cream, glimmering in the low light, calling to him — he keeps his hands folded firmly in his lap as it’s set down.
Jean takes his time, with the first bite; plays out enjoyment.
He's slow after that, too, waiting to see how much Valentine will dare to eat, if he'll feel forced to match his pace.
He does.
He sneaks the occasional sliver between Jean's bites.
He could eat neatly from one side, make it easy for Valentine to guess at half.
He doesn't do that.
Eventually there's only a little left.
He looks up at Jean.
He looks down at the plate.
"May I...?"
He makes him wait for it.
"...be my guest."
Sadist.
"Thank you."
He savors the last scrap of pastry, chases the taste of it long past the moment he swallows.
He really is incomparable.
"Next week," Jean tells him, when they part, "come hungry," and doesn't kiss those lovely lips.
He spends all of the next week waiting for a message.
He is leaning heavily against the side of the restaurant, when Jean arrives, and isn't as quick as usual to notice him.
"Valentine! I'm so pleased you could make it."
His head snaps up immediately.
“…it’s always a pleasure,” he says, pushing himself up off the wall.
Jean smiles charmingly, and offers his arm.
After a moment’s hesitation, he takes it.
He leans a little more heavily on it than he would like, as they approach their table.
It's very romantic.
"You're tired. Should we postpone?"
“—no,” he says, a little too quickly for his taste. “Just — a very long day.”
Jean watches how unsteady the boy is on his feet, and feels an unfamiliar pang of sympathy twist his own stomach.
If only, he thinks -- a little detached from his own experience -- that were the only thing stirring.
They're seated. The waiter inquires about starters, and Jean orders himself hoecakes piled with blue cheese and frisée and caramelized apples. His companion will pass.
He almost manages to protest, as the waiter walks away.
But it’s a good thing he didn’t. He doesn’t have enough money in his pocket for a cup of coffee here, let alone any of the food.
Jean smiles at him and makes conversation as if nothing could possibly be the matter.
"...some Wilde at the Royal Haymarket next month. You'd enjoy it, I think, if you're free."
“…of course, if you’d take me…”
He finds himself going along with it, haltingly. What else can he do?
When the food arrives, Jean eats with evident enjoyment, chooses hibiscus-beet-seville-orange from the list of salads.
The waiter refills Valentine's water.
…so that’s how it is.
Maybe he’ll decline the next invitation. Maybe he’ll walk out right now.
(His stomach is gnawing at him.)
He drinks, as if it’ll do him any good.
How could he leave? Jean could still order the main course for him.
Jean does not order the main course for him. Jean eats fragrant slices of Seville orange and orders blackened scallops, watches Valentine's pale thin trembling hands and imagines them touching him.
He watches him eat. God help him.
At the end of their main course, he excuses himself a little shakily to the restroom.
(He sits there for several minutes contemplating leaving out a back door.)
The door opens and shuts.
There is a pair of familiarly exceptional shoes in the stall next to his.
…oh, no.
He doesn’t know whether it would be worse to leave now, or to stay longer.
If anything happens in the other stall, it happens in perfect silence.
(Maybe he's texting.)
He’s…going back to the table now.
The waiter asks him if he'll have smoked panna cotta with mulberries, or the mandarin tapioca with coconut foam.
He really does try to control himself.
"The panna cotta, please."
The waiter nods and disappears, just in time for Jean to return, drying his hands.
...he couldn't have taken a little longer, could he.
He tries, and fails spectacularly, not to look guilty.
The waiter returns shortly, and asks Jean for his order. He requests the tapioca.
His current conversation topic appears to be mildly entertaining anecdotes about the personal foibles of various directors, some with names Valentine may recognize.
It's fairly interesting, actually — or, he feels like it would be, if he could focus at all. But all he can think about is panna cotta.
The desserts arrive shortly. The panna cotta glistens.
Jean is inscrutable. Surprised? Annoyed? Amused? Aroused?
It doesn't matter.
He can't take his first bite fast enough,
and then Jean is barely there at all.
Ah. And this is what he waited for.
(He should take it away from him -- eat it, make him watch -- force it down his throat -- dash it to the floor -- taunt him -- make him beg--)
Jean adjusts his napkin in his lap.
He forces himself to drag it out, despite the gnawing pain in his stomach, taking tiny bites and sucking the tines of the fork clean.
(Heaven. Mercy. Perfectly smooth and creamy and melting, shot through with tartness, smoke lingering on his tongue.)
By the time he sets his fork down, the plate almost looks newly washed.
Jean doesn't remember to eat until Valentine is done.
Valentine, soothed but unsatisfied, watches every bite Jean takes.
Jean finishes. The waiter brings the check.
It appears that M. Dulac is paying in cash tonight. Valentine can watch him count out the bills into three piles: the tip, his own meal, the panna cotta.
He can't bring himself to feel it wasn't worth it.
He is, however, more than a little apprehensive.
He lets Valentine take a good look at his price, before he hands it over.
"A ride home?"
"...if you wouldn't mind."
The car ride is brief. There's classical music playing.
Jean stops outside Valentine's house.
Valentine thanks him, steps out of the car.
He doesn't know whether to expect Jean will come with him.
It's tempting.
It's even more tempting to let the debt hang in the air, unspecified, Damocletian.
Jean sits in the car and watches.
He's going to make him ask, isn't he.
"Did you — want to come up?"
If he'd said would you like, maybe.
But for did you want to -- no. He'll wait to be begged.
"That's quite all right."
"...good night, then. And thank you again."
He disappears up the stairs of his apartment.
Jean sits there, watching him, promising himself that if Valentine passes out on the stairs he will have him while he's unconscious.
When Valentine is out of sight, he drives home.
...what? What???
(He keeps looking at that first image, through that first day, and trying not to laugh. Or want wonton soup.)
The second one is slightly more complicated.
(He could tell him he's changed his mind. He isn't likely to be fed, at the theater...)
He arrives on the specified day, early, looking much less faint and very carefully groomed (though in the same suit of clothes as always).
There's no sign of Jean at the theater.
The ticket desk has a ticket for him, though.
Maybe he's already in. (Or maybe he's going to be fashionably late, as usual.)
He takes his ticket, finds his seat, waits.
The lights go down.
The curtain goes up.
The debonair Lord Goring, it transpires, is very familiar.
...Oh.
That answers that.
(It really is something else, to see him live on stage.)
He's brilliant -- transformative -- when he smiles the shower of sparks lights up the stage.
Every witticism is flawlessly deft. Every social debacle is an utter cascade of horror. He's far and away the best actor on stage, and when he comes out to see Valentine, after the last bow, he's shirtless and toweling off sweat and laughing with delight.
He can't decide whether these feelings are convenient or extremely problematic.
"...I had no idea," he says, because he can't think of anything else to say.
"Yes, it was a bit of a surprise. The gentleman who plays the part had a family event, and I've acted it before, so I asked if I could step in for the night."
"You're incredible."
"I am," he agrees, beaming. "I am very, very good. Where would you like to go for dinner?"
...he can pick.
"Is — anywhere all right?"
"My treat. Opening night, for me, we're celebrating."
"...Soleil?" he says, tentatively.
"Allons-y!"
He has a shirt in the car. He puts it on while driving.
That is not a driving experience he likes!
Well then maybe Valentine should get his own car.
Jean smiles at the hostess and they have a reservation at Soleil, somehow. If any money changed hands, it wasn't visible.
...impressive.
"How do you do that?"
"Do what?"
He doesn't really seem to expect an answer. His bare feet are up on the chair next to him, and he's putting on the shoes that were tossed over his shoulder with their laces tied together, wiggling his toes with delight.
He looks up at Jean's wiggling toes and covers his mouth, laughs quietly behind his hand.
Jean chatters away merrily as he laces up his shoes.
"...ripped her hose at the beginning of the second act, did you see? She was trying not to make it any worse through the whole scene..."
It's — cute, actually.
He smiles and chats back, occasionally glancing around the restaurant in quiet awe.
He's allowed to place his own order, this time. Jean calls for a bottle of champagne.
He changes his order twice, and apologizes profusely to the waiter.
(It's a very important decision, that's all.)
Jean pops the cork on the champagne and pours for both of them liberally, laughing.
"I can't imagine you find time for the theater as often as you ought."
"I'm very busy. And I have no money."
He takes a cautious sip of the champagne.
"I can get you comped tickets. If you ever have the time. Money should never be an obstacle to the arts."
"...I appreciate it. If it's not an imposition."
"Most certainly not. It's my privilege."
Another sip of champagne.
"...thank you for tonight, too."
"Nothing to thank me for. It's no pleasure to drink alone."
He smiles, and drinks champagne.
He has a fair few questions about the performance itself, until their food arrives,
and then he's thinking of nothing else.
Fine. So his acting is less interesting than food. He sees how it is.
...his acting is, however, possibly less interesting than Valentine eating food.
He wakes up, a little, as he's finishing his plate.
"...I'm sorry, I was asking you about something..."
Jean hands him the dessert menu.
...he is immediately and thoroughly distracted by the dessert menu.
In five minutes, he has it narrowed down to two.
Jean, being in an extravagant mood, orders him both.
Oh.
...he has to excuse himself to the bathroom, for a moment.
He shouldn't follow him again.
He keeps imagining Valentine vomiting, though, to make room -- it would explain the jutting wrists --
A minute of struggle later, he follows him.
He's just here to calm down.
(This shouldn't have — the kind of effect that it has. What's wrong with him?)
It'll go away on its own.
Or, it should.
Or...he'll be very, very quick and quiet about fixing it.
(There's just the slightest noise, just the smallest change in breathing.)
Then he's up, to go and wash his hands.
He's standing, expressionless, just outside of the stall door, one hand raised almost to touch it.
What.
"Ah, Valentine," he says, mildly, after a moment, and moves to let him wash his hands.
...did that...just happen?
He...guesses he'll go wash his hands.
Jean returns to the table.
Presently, Valentine does as well.
Are they...both going to act like nothing happened.
Jean is!
He is...a little less competent at it —he keeps stopping between sentences and just looking at him, trying to figure out what he could possibly say —
until the desserts arrive, and he has something else to think about.
(He starts with the pot de créme, and his tongue darts out on occasion to catch the last bit of custard on the spoon.)
Jean, picking at his own dessert, is also preoccupied.
(His eyes -- his lips -- his tongue -- he wants to make him stick it out and beg...)
The poached pears are next.
(He can hardly bear to swallow each individual bite — he can hardly bear to wait before he swallows. He shivers, a little, the first few times he does. It's all torture but he's so glad of it.)
He'd worship that face on his knees. Or make it worship him.
"Give me the last bite."
He stops.
He bites his lip, stares at the last sliver of fruit on his fork.
Then he holds it out to him.
Jean leans forward -- opens his mouth -- eats it off his fork.
Torture.
He brings his fork back, silently.
(He still sucks it clean.)
It's like a kiss.
"A ride home?"
"...yes, thank you."
He leaves a lavish, celebratory tip on the table, sings along to a French folk song in the car.
Quietly, after hearing it once or twice, he joins him on the chorus.
(He’s about to make a very bad decision.)
Jean is nakedly delighted by this development.
When he pulls up to Valentine's apartment, he keeps the car running until the end of the song.
He opens the door, when the engine’s off, and pauses before his feet hit the ground.
“…do you have anywhere to be?”
He almost says yes, it's become such a habitual delight to deny him.
"Nowhere urgent."
He remembers the macaron — the performance — being followed into the bathroom, followed into the kitchen, hunted — the laughter — the cat pictures — the second dessert — sitting at the table hungry —
“Are you too full for coffee?”
“I think I could make room.”
He takes the keys out of the ignition. His eyes, fixed on Valentine, are very bright, a little hungry.
He leads him into the building, up the stairs.
(Is it just that he wants to end the cat-and-mouse game?)
The door opens into the living room — it’s bare, sparsely furnished but meticulously clean. The worn leather couch has a blanket and pillow folded neatly at one end.
(How much does he want to be eaten alive?)
Jean reaches out to touch the couch. There’s something intrusive about the gesture — an uninvited intimacy.
“You should have lovelier things. Better lighting.”
“Maybe someday.”
The kitchen is only separated from the living room by the back of a counter and a change from carpet to linoleum — he heads that way.
Jean follows him, stopping at the edge of the carpet to lean on the countertop.
"And the acoustics." (Tapping his fingertips on the counter.) "Not terrible. But could be improved."
“I’m sure they would be better, if anything were on the walls.”
There’s a gooseneck kettle on the countertop — he sets it heating up, and with scrupulous care measures out a handful of beans for a grinder.
In sharp contrast to the rest of the apartment, the grinder and the kettle are clearly high-end equipment, as is the curvaceous glass pour-over in which he places a filter.
Ah. The performance.
He stops his critique of the stage and the set-dressing to watch in rapt silence.
The kettle is already dialed in to a particular temperature. The grinder is manual, and he turns the crank with careful attention — once its done, he deposits the fine powder in the filter, tilts his wrist just so to make sure it’s even.
Just before the kettle chimes, he lifts it off its stand, and pours in one smooth spiral over the grounds.
As dark liquid trickles down the glass wall of the carafe, he goes to his cupboard and retrieves two delicate porcelain cups and saucers, clearly finer than the rest of his mismatched plates and bowls.
It's so beautiful.
He wants to ruin it.
(To make him pour it out on the ground and kneel in the puddle to suck cock -- to taste it and spit it out in disgust -- to smash the cup when he's done so that no one else can ever put their lips on that same perfect porcelain...)
“—do you take cream or sugar?”
Not usually but he wants to see more. "Yes."
He retrieves an irregular, sparkling lump of dark sugar from a jar, and a glass bottle of cream from the refrigerator (which is, as far as Jean will be able to see from that angle, packed full).
The sugar goes in the bottom of the cup — once he’s poured the coffee over it, and stirred it once or twice with a small spoon, he adds cream, lets the swirling white clouds blend into the black coffee until the whole cup is an even caramel color.
(His own, he leaves black.)
When he hands Jean his cup on its saucer, he very slightly averts his eyes.
"Merci."
He sips it slowly, closing his eyes and letting his lashes flutter: the correct performance for a fine drink.
He puts his own cup to his lips, as well, drinks deeply. It’s still so hot, without cream or sugar, that it scalds his lips a little, warms the inside of his throat as it goes down.
(He could make Valentine set aside his cup, drink it afterwards, stone-cold.)
"It's very good."
“…thank you.”
He sets his own cup down, half-empty. (He’s full.)
"I don't think I've ever seen you let food go to waste."
“I don’t make a habit of it. But you fed me very well tonight.”
"Soleil fed you."
“At your request. But — yes.”
"Would you like me to?"
“—to—”
Oh.
He comes slowly around the counter.
"Wait."
It takes a little maneuvering for him to pour Valentine's cooling coffee into his own cupped hands.
Then he stretches them out slightly, raises an eyebrow.
He falls to his knees, right on the line between the kitchen and the rest of the world, and leans forward, and he drinks.
It’s very different, with his lips brushing fingertips, with the bitterness of the coffee just covering the mild salt taste of skin.
He realizes, distantly, that he likes it.
Jean waits until Valentine laps up the last of the coffee from where his palms meet.
Then he unfastens his pants and puts his damp hands in Valentine's hair.
He had been so apprehensive, thinking about this, the idea of having this extracted from him as payment.
He finds that now that he’s here, on his knees, he can’t get Jean’s underwear down fast enough.
(It’s still humiliating. Maybe more so, for how much he knows he’ll enjoy it.)
He takes the head of Jean’s cock in his mouth,
and his eyes close, and his body stills.
It feels so good.
A small tender sigh, and for a moment he just lets it rest there in Valentine's warm mouth, between his lips, on his tongue.
Then he begins to thrust, holding Valentine's head quite still with both hands.
That escalated more quickly than he was expecting.
He chokes, a little, and tries for a moment to move back to recover himself only to be stopped short. Then he’s just trying to keep breathing, to relax when it hits his throat — to stop himself from gagging, more than anything, because he’s full and he can feel his whole body begin to protest every time he starts to choke.
(It’s almost soothing. There’s so little he can do.)
He could make Valentine vomit it all up, Jean thinks, thrusting into the back of his throat, and then he abruptly stops thinking at all.
It's just barely possible for him to pull back enough to give Valentine the taste of it over his tongue. It goes over Valentine's cheekbones, too, dripping down his chin to his collarbones, a little in the ends of his hair.
He ducks his head, slightly, covers his mouth with one hand, tries not to cough.
After a moment, a little painfully, he swallows.
He opens Valentine's mouth with one hand; checks, thumb on Valentine's tongue, that he's swallowed it all.
With his other hand, he strokes Valentine's hair, slow and gentle.
He kneels there, flushed, pulse rapid under Jean's thumb, catching his breath.
He can't move, and he can't look away.
He takes the time to feel out the inside of Valentine's mouth at leisure -- pads of his fingers brushing over the slight roughness of tastebuds, massaging gums, pressing uncomfortably towards the back of the throat before relenting, seeking out the soft sensitive place between teeth and lower lip.
(All the while, the other hand keeps petting his hair.)
The intimacy of it is agonizing, from a man he barely knows, in his dim apartment with nothing on the walls where no one visits.
His jaw aches, opening for him. His mouth drips, saliva trailing down from the corner of his mouth. He shudders, slightly, from the pleasure of the fingers stroking him entering him inside him, from the exposure.
His palm rubs slowly over the leg of his pants.
He's done as abruptly as he began, wiping his hands on Valentine's kitchen towels before he buttons his fly.
"I must be going. I have a rehearsal."
It is not remotely a seasonable hour for a rehearsal.
“Ah — of. Of course,” he says, flushed, swallowing.
This seems vaguely out of the ordinary but he’s not nearly coherent enough at this moment to dispute it.
Jean flees the apartment.
...he does, however, linger outside the door.
He watches him go. Waits for the door to close behind him.
And then he doesn’t move, doesn’t even take down his pants—
He leans hard against the counter and takes deep, shuddering breaths and strokes himself hard until he comes, thinking about Jean’s fingers on his tongue.
No one could possibly say how long Jean stays for. He's certainly gone before morning.
(Why. Why. Why. What has he done.)
(How long until he can do it again?)
(It’s a while, before Valentine drags himself to the couch and falls asleep.)
There's nothing. For a week.
(Jean is capable of self-control. He is. He is.)
More crepes.
All at once, he really gets them. They start turning out close to perfect. He eats so well, for a day or two — piles of lacy, perfect crepes and berries and whipped cream and honey.
After a couple of days, though, he tastes them less. The sugar is cloying, sits heavy in his stomach. It goes from being a triumph to being ordinary to being laughable.
And then he goes into work and — doesn’t quite want to finish staff meal, he’s full from trying at the crepes again and comparing them to where he started, seeing if he actually improved, but he does anyway and then he spends half of his shift thinking about how he could have learned something from that if he had been really paying attention, if he had been hungry….
He gets rid of it and then washes his hands thoroughly and for the rest of his shift his attention is much improved.
He assumes that, the chase having concluded, he is no longer interesting.
A week in he sends his best photo of the crepes.
There are movers at Valentine’s door.
They would like him to sign on this tablet, please, and then they’ll be ready to get started — is that couch going into storage or to the dump — does he have any pets they need to watch out for —
Trollies covered with moving blankets loom ominous just behind the man in front, bulky men trundling them along.
Down in the street, a second van is parking.
Valentine reads the address on the form five times.
Are they…absolutely sure they have the right apartment?
For Valentine Teegarden? Is he here?
Men in a different style of overalls are hauling rolls of carpet up the stairs, and arguing with one of the movers about who has first rights to the apartment.
……yes, this is Valentine Teegarden.
He takes a quick inventory of his apartment and starts gathering up everything he owns and actually likes. Most of it is in the kitchen.
Overalls #1 and Overalls #2 are ripping up his carpet. Overalls #3 is measuring his apartment.
The furniture movers, not to concede the precedence argument, are getting his couch up on trollies, and obstructing Overalls #1 and #2.
He tries to get an answer from the carpet guys, re: their provenance. Presumably the landlord would have called ahead? Hopefully?
This is an incredibly confusing question. They have ... a work order? From their boss? For here, right?
He checks another five times. It’s still for here.
He lets the carpet people be, after taking a picture or two. He is really not attached to his apartment’s carpet.
Now time to go figure out why the mysterious movers need to remove his couch from his apartment. He needs that to sleep on.
Did he not want it removed after all...? They can try to fit in the new furniture around it, they guess??
Someone is guerilla furnishing his apartment.
He normally wouldn’t jump to this immediately, but there aren’t a lot of options.
did you send me furniture?
In the meantime, he will ask if there happens to be another couch coming in.
As soon as these expletive carpet guys are done with their expletive carpet.
More people want him to sign for things.
You know what? This is all fine. This all might as well happen.
He signs things as they are presented to him, and (after carefully herding his actually important possessions into kitchen cabinets) requests to see the new couch before he lets them cart off his one piece of functional furniture.
There is a new couch! It is slightly embedded in padding and cardboard, but it definitely exists.
Someone is unscrewing light fixtures. Someone else is taking the glass out of the window. No one is touching the kitchen.
He’s going to let this happen.
He returns to his kitchen and sits there with his pots and pans and watches videos about rare fruits until someone tells him to move.
Carpet comes out and carpet goes in and fixtures get replaced and no one bothers him except one of the movers who wants to know if he has any diet Dr. Pepper.
Jean Dulac texts him back.
Okay.
(He has no diet Dr. Pepper, but the corner store does, and he has nothing to do anyway. He goes and buys some soda for the men invading his home.)
By the time he's back the new carpet is being tacked down. It's unreasonably lush, and a pale cream color that only someone who had never cleaned a carpet in his life would choose.
The new windows look much like the old windows. The new furniture being moved in ... doesn't look much like the old furniture. It's all oil-rubbed bronzes and artistic lines and a delicately balanced lamp shaped like a squiggle freehanded in midair.
His kitchen remains untouched. There's several men working to hang a small lithograph in an alarmingly serious-looking frame, and install lighting above it.
He’s not sure whether he’s relieved they’re not trying to take his pots and pans or disappointed that the dingy old electric stove is staying where it is.
While they turn his apartment into a page from an interior design magazine, he tries to get a look at the lithograph over the concerningly large number of men involved in hanging it.
It's right there, atop the archival acid-free matting, under the UV-resistant glass, being pinned like a butterfly to the wall.
Valentine Teegarden does some very frantic googling.
Well.
It's possible that what he has is a reproduction of Buste l'homme, from La suite des saltimbanques, drypoint print by "Picasso, Pablo"?
Surely it is.
Is this real
He sends a picture.
Obviously. -- JD
How should he be reacting to all this?
Should he be…grateful, for the amount of money that presumably went into this? Alarmed, by the same, and by the fact that he was never actually consulted? Afraid of what else might happen without his input? Should he feel appreciated? Objectified? Eager? Trapped?
He doesn’t know what to do with any of that. But he is always curious — always hungry — and this remains, and this he understands.
Why?
Reproductions simply don't have the same quality, especially viewed close up. It's worth appreciating in the original.
Thank you
Jean Dulac sends him a gif of a man getting hit in the crotch by a rake.
He turns his phone off and watches the bizarre proceedings in his apartment.
Eventually one of the movers will ask him, with at most a medium amount of politeness, whether he really needs to be there while they maneuver furniture into the tiny apartment.
Yes.
